Turn it Off to Turn it On
by ObookNorth
Summary: What would it take for Sherlock to turn his brain off long enough to have sex? Written for a prompt on the Kink Meme. Early Established Relationship


Sherlock had been lying on his back, looking at the ceiling all day long. For some reason, there was so little news in London today that Lestrade had actually called him up earlier to say cheerfully, "Well, maybe having a consulting detective is a good luck charm. No one's really seemed to want to go on a homicidal killing spree recently." Everyone at the Yard, apparently, was happy and thankful for this wonderful turn of events. In contrast Sherlock hadn't changed out of his night clothes from the night before, and was lying on the couch, trying not to think of the great white, deafening nothing.

John banged into the flat, walking up the stairs. Even he seemed to be in a good mood, Sherlock noted with distaste, shouting out a cheery hello to Miss Hudson, and coming up the stairs with a half skip. "Hello Sherlock," John said happily, heading straight for the kitchen. The consulting detective breathed out through his nose, taking some comfort in the sounds of John filling the kettle. "Want some?" John called out into the living room.

Sherlock nodded, then remembered that John couldn't see him. "Yes."

There were the noises of John shuffling his feet as he stood over the kettle (John hated coming out into the sitting room before the kettle had boiled; hating sitting down then having to get up again), the clink of the mugs coming down from the cupboard and the spoons going in the mugs, the rustle of the pack of digestives that John dug into (he always ate an extra in the kitchen as if he thought Sherlock wouldn't pick up on it). Finally a sigh as the kettle began to whistle, and the sound of John kicking off his shoes, teabags in the mugs, hot water over the tea-bags, sugar for Sherlock, a little milk for John, stir, and then…

Sherlock pressed his thumbs to the middle of his forehead, trying to remember that there really wasn't any point to deducing how exactly John made them both tea.

There was a soft pad-pad as John came into the room in just his socks, sitting the tea down next to Sherlock, whose eyes were still closed. Sherlock was sure he could hear the almost wary blinking, the slight wet sound of John's tongue flicking over his lips… "Are you all right?" Sherlock muttered mockingly, half a second before John said it himself.

John giggled. "Brilliant. You even know what I'm going to say next!"

Sherlock groaned, throwing his arm across his face. "It's dreadful John. Nothing is happening. Lestrade phoned up today to torment me with the fact that no one's murdering anyone right now. It's so DULL that I've hardly moved all day."

Something quick, soft, and wet pressed against his lips. The detective breathed out heavily through his nose. "John, you should know by now that I'm not in the bloody mood."

"It's just a kiss." Slightly calloused fingers stroked the side of his face, "kissing doesn't have to be a precursor to anything.

"It usually is with 'Three Continent's Watson," Sherlock murmured, half fond, half still irritated. He pulled his arm down slightly so he could look over it into the deep blue eyes that were staring at down at him. "Oh god, you're worried about me," he muttered, covering his eyes again.

There were two soft kisses at his temple, and a finger traced his full lower lip. "I'm worried about your circulation," John clarified. "People aren't meant to lie in the same position for eight hours straight unless they're in a coma."

Sherlock grunted and pushed himself up into a sitting position, then heaved himself off the couch, staggering upright with a groan. He rubbed his arse ruefully and stared down at John who was still perched on the edge of the sofa ruefully, "There. I'm fine, see?"

John gave a half smile. He was still dressed in his work clothes, a collared plaid shirt, tie, and brown cardigan over khakis, but his hair was disheveled and a little tufty at the back. He looked, Sherlock thought, unbearably edible, and he leaned over, nudging his neck into a tilt with his nose and biting down on it sharply. He was rewarded by John jerking in an agonized squeak and squeezing his eyes shut. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I thought you weren't interested."

"And I thought you weren't offering."

"I could be. Especially if you keep that up."

Sherlock frowned, crossing his arms, and slumping down on the sofa again, petulantly. "Don't really care to."

"Manipulating git," John muttered, pressing his lips to Sherlock's again, tilting his head to the side and moving his mouth to open Sherlock's wide enough to slip a tongue in. Sherlock grunted, stiffening his neck for a second, then sighed, running his fingers through John's hair in the back as the other man's tongue glided over his own and teasingly tickled the tip. Pulling John's tie out of the cardigan absent-mindedly, Sherlock began to undo the buttons on the cardigan with his other hand. John dug his fingers into Sherlock's hair, when he seemed to be losing interest in it, and there were a few moments of nipping and shoving as each man tried to assert himself. Finally experience gave out, and John straddled Sherlock's lap triumphantly, pushing the detective's head backward against the wall. "Dull," Sherlock muttered as John tried to kiss him again. "You're much too predictable."

John cuffed him gently. "Last time we tried it your way I ended up handcuffed to your bed for the weekend because you wanted to experiment with Stockholm syndrome."

Sherlock grunted, "You didn't safe word."

"That's because I already have Stockholm syndrome, you mad, beautiful git."

"I'll get back on top eventually."

"We'll see. This is one game I'm quite good at. Now shut up."

John kissed down Sherlock's neck until he reached just above the collarbone. He jerked down the collar of Sherlock's white t-shirt, and pinched soft flesh between his teeth, rubbing and sucking gently until Sherlock was groaning in pain but arching his neck up and breathing heavily. John looked appreciatively at the red spot that he was sure would form into a bruise, and licked over it lightly.

"Oh…" Sherlock's hips bucked a bit. "God John."

"Mmmm. Maybe you're the one with Stockholm syndrome. At least I go to work, but you're stuck here all day with nothing to do until I come home and seduce you."

"Shut up! I work enough. Do that thing with your tongue again."

John obliged, dragging it over the slowly forming bruise.

"I need to calculate the pain to pleasure ratio on that at some point. A truly fascinating biological effect," Sherlock said blandly.

John rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell. It takes a fucking marathon just to get your brain to turn off long enough to get an erection."

"If I'm bottoming I don't need an erection."

"Yes," John bit out, picking up Sherlock's hand and inspecting it for noxious chemical stains. "You do. That's not how I work." He slipped Sherlock's pointer finger into his mouth, curling his tongue around it and hollowing his cheeks as though it was a cock. With his other hand he groped at Sherlock's groin and frowned through his ministrations; apparently in the analysis of the pain/pleasure ratio Sherlock had lost whatever erection he had had entirely. If he had even had an erection in the first place.

"Oh god," John muttered. His own cock was straining against his pants. He kissed Sherlock again, gently rubbing it against the detective's belly. "Let's get you to bed," he murmured. "I want you to ache for me before you come."

"Have you been watching porn again?" Sherlock asked, curiously. "That particular line seems to be overused on the gay soft-porn websites that you tend to frequent."

John dropped his head to Sherlock's chest, groaning both in frustration and in stubborn resolve. "Get. The fuck. To bed. Now, Sherlock."

There were a few moments of silence, and then, to his surprised, Sherlock stood up and began walking to the other room, shedding clothing almost absentmindedly.


End file.
